


develop, stop, fix

by meditationonbaaal



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Light Hair Pulling, Praise Kink, Restraining, Smut, Spanking, aftercare conversation, d/s dynamics, darkroom shenanigans, marking fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26883376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationonbaaal/pseuds/meditationonbaaal
Summary: The revolving blackout door spins about her in a blur of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets. She lets it spin for a few revolutions, and as the neon streams around her, she imagines this is what it feels like to be launched through outer space. Betty leans into the dizzying effect, swaying on her feet as the seemingly never-ending cosmos rushes past her. Each time she gets a flash of the bright light from the classroom behind her, she imagines she is blowing past another sun in another galaxy far away. When the door finally crawls to a stop, opening into the deceiving dark of the photography studio, she thinks she has finally reached the end of the universe.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 34
Kudos: 114
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, Riverdale Kink Week





	develop, stop, fix

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _I want you to be rough with me, please leave marks on my skin, with hickey/bites/marking fetish_  
>  Bonus Kinks: _Consensual forced orgasm, praise kink, degradation_
> 
> First time participating in one of these, and it was fun to write ~10k of smut. I tried to meet the bonus kinks, but alas. Nonetheless, I hope it still satisfies <3

The revolving blackout door spins about her in a blur of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets. She lets it spin for a few revolutions, and as the neon streams around her, she imagines this is what it feels like to be launched through outer space. Betty leans into the dizzying effect, swaying on her feet as the seemingly never-ending cosmos rushes past her. Each time she gets a flash of the bright light from the classroom behind her, she imagines she is blowing past another sun in another galaxy far away. When the door finally crawls to a stop, opening into the deceiving dark of the photography studio, she thinks she has finally reached the end of the universe.

It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim orange gloom as she takes her first few steps into the darkroom, tottering forward like a child on its first steps. Betty knows she has gone too far when her hips bump into the sink, her fingers tripping over the wet plastic of the rinsing screens.

“On your left,” a disembodied voice alerts from the darkness. He is closer than she expected.

The enlarger clicks on, a sudden column of light that momentarily brightens the space, and her gaze zeroes in on his silhouette. She attempts to absorb as much light as possible to orient herself to the rest of her surroundings. The timer ends too quickly, and then there is an abrupt buzz as the light disappears, swallowed back up inside the enlarger in a way that reminds her of those low-budget stagings of UFOs abducting unsuspecting farmers and hikers. With the light goes any sense of Betty’s situational awareness, the room once more swallowed up by dark sodium orange gloom.

He lives here at the edge of the universe, where light ends. She watches the suggestion of his shadow spin on its heels, his confident steps toward the sink as he deposits the photo paper into the developer. She can see a little better now even with the negative image of the enlarger’s light burned on the back of her retinas, watching him gently rock the tray back and forth to distribute the developer across the newborn image, like he is rocking a child in its cradle.

Something plays on the small boom box in the corner, something that makes her feel even more like the entire world has fallen away and taken the moon and stars with it, but when she glances over her shoulder, the glow of the sticker constellations looms behind her, lighting her escape should she need it. The rest of the world is only a hop, skip, and jump away. He would never lead her too far astray, she assures herself. Besides, she came here of her own accord, waltzed willingly into his dark little corner of the universe.

Betty gets a little nervous every time she comes here. Her eyes never adjust as quickly as she would like, and there are so many random corners and edges popping up out of nowhere that she always manages to leave with a few bruises. She suspects he rearranges things in here just to throw her off, but that is ridiculous. The sink does not move, and the booths housing the enlargers are bolted to the ground to minimize shake. Nothing changes, but perhaps she feels out of her element because she always feels like she is treading into his territory when she comes here.

He is far more surefooted here than in the hallways between periods or leaving Pop’s after a writing session. In those well-lit settings his shoulders are always hunched, headphones in place, fists firmly planted in his jacket pockets. He shuffles along through the slush of melting spring, ornery and combative and unapproachable and always looking so damned uncomfortable out there. She never senses that from him in here. The only other place he seems relaxed is in the _Blue and Gold_ , but not always.

He transfers his print to the stop bath. As he swishes the tray back and forth, she gets a heavy whiff of vinegar.

“What’s up, Betts?” He wonders, and it almost sounds like he is throwing his voice, like it is coming out of the tinny speakers on the corner boom box.

“Nothing,” she chirps innocently, which is true.

She feels she should have some legitimate reason for coming here, like she needs to always have an excuse to see him, especially if it means coming here. Earlier, Betty was languishing in the _Blue and Gold_ proofing columns, and she doesn’t want to call it boredom because it wasn’t quite that.

He said he wasn’t going to be there to help her proof tonight, that he had some work here in the darkroom, and at the time, she was okay with it. Normally, she would be fine with it, would welcome it, so she didn’t have to haggle with him over every unnecessary modifier and semicolon because he could be like a pit bull when it came to his writing.

The quiet was nice at first, skimming the tip of her red pen through his latest first draft, but when she got to the end, Betty realized she had only made a few marks, most of them simple typos. Betty reread the submission, searching for some of his signature verbosity, ready to strike out any hyperbole or embellishments, but the piece was clean-cut and straightforward. All his points of contention were neatly lined up, and he delivered his arguments and evidence concisely and cogently.

For a second, she got the sneaking suspicion he had gone around her, had someone else edit it before he submitted it to her, and maybe that is where she got the sudden hankering to see him.

“What’d I get wrong this time?” He asks with a sigh, moving the print into the fixer.

The ammonia stings her nostrils. “Nothing,” she says again. “Actually, I barely had to make any edits this time around,” she leads, sidling carefully around the edge of the sink towards him. If she does not have something to hold onto, she feels like she will lose her bearings. It is easy to do in here, but he seems so at ease, it’s unnerving, like watching a predator move about in the night.

He chuckles. “Maybe I’m figuring out what you want.”

He says it like he is surprised himself that Betty failed to find any flaws in his latest column. Pleasantly surprised, though.

That appears to be more and more the case of late, in many different ways. It is like he doesn’t have to try that hard, or they are syncing up. It does something to her, realigns her somehow. They are at that point in their relationship where all the dots start connecting at once, things finally clicking into place, emotionally, certainly physically. Physically, for sure.

Pressing her thighs together, she thinks about last weekend, when he did something she didn’t expect but ended up really enjoying, relishing. She finds herself thinking about it often, finds herself wanting to try it again, embellish, go farther, push some more edges.

She would be lying if she said that was not part of the reason she came here, but honestly it feels like all her poles are reorienting themselves in his direction. She ends up drifting here under the pretense of some other flimsy excuse, when it is instinct that drives her to this place. She searches for him here even though she does not like this place, and though it makes her vulnerable, being here where she feels so out of her element and he is very much immersed and comfortable inside his own, she wants to be around him.

Earlier in the _Blue and Gold_ , editing by herself, she found herself missing his griping. It had become something of a weekly ritual with them, the ongoing debate about the merits of the semicolon, when to use passive or active voice, how many adverbs were too many. Being alone with her proofreading, having to make these determinations by herself for the first time in a while, she found herself missing his input. She found the columns missing it, too.

She comes here because she wants to know, what makes him tick, why he loves semicolons, what sets him at ease about this place, what he enjoys about it. She wants to see him in his element, or maybe siphon off some of the peace he finds here, bring it back with her to the _Blue and Gold_. She just – she finds herself wanting to know everything, feels greedy with it.

Jughead slides the print into the rinse tray, and she comes up next to him. Her eyes more adjusted to the dim, she can make out the image of Dilton Doiley exchanging cash for an ID outside of a gym last Saturday in Greendale. It was one of a series of photographs taken over the last month, showing Doiley with a different customer each time, right before an LSAT exam.

“Oh, that came out really well,” Betty compliments, tipping the rinse tray towards her. The real test would come when it was dry and under ambient light, but she could clearly see it was Dilton in front of Reggie Mantle’s Camaro.

“You get lucky,” he demurs, his chest brushing her shoulder. He plants his hand on the edge of the sink next to her hip, subtly caging her in.

She feels his nose behind her ear, hears a shuddering inhale. His knuckles brush her hipbone, like he is waiting for permission, hiding behind plausible deniability.

It makes her remember last weekend, and Betty can safely say luck had nothing to do with it. They were both keyed up, most of it from their adventure in Greendale that Saturday, sneaking behind cars in the parking lot, Jughead attempting to get a better shot. He climbed up on one of the dumpsters at one point and laid himself out on top. It ended up being garbage day, though, and he nearly got tipped into the compactor. If Betty hadn’t flagged down the driver, Jughead would have been fit for the landfill. If luck played a factor at all it was that they didn’t get made by their marks during the ordeal.

Afterwards, she told him he needed to invest in a telephoto lens or borrow one from the damned photography department next time. She even offered to help him fundraise for better camera accessories, and while they bickered during the car ride back to Riverdale, Betty’s heart was racing. It felt like it was threatening to crack her sternum in two, crawl right out of her chest, and land in the palm of Jughead’s hand where it seemed to belong. All she wanted to do was order him to pull off on the side of the road, clamber across the gearshift, and grind him down until he was as useless a puddle as she was, as she always seemed to feel around him.

Unfortunately, Betty had to attend an extended family dinner that night, but she told Jughead he should come by the next day. Her parents were supposed to be out to drive her aunt and uncle and cousins back to Centerville. Betty would make up some excuse about a big midterm essay due for her Women in US History class on Monday. She would say it was worth half her final grade when it was only about 15%, but Betty finds it easy to tell her parents little white lies to spend more time with Jughead.

The remainder of the drive home was torture. Jughead kept glancing at her with the excuse he was checking the rearview mirror, reaching up to adjust it far more than was necessary, and she wanted to grab his hand and guide it exactly where she needed it. Instead, she pressed her palms together and stuck them between her clenched thighs, focusing on that pressure while Jughead adjusted the rearview mirror for the fifth time. That was what started it, she thinks, the thrill of the investigation. All that leftover adrenaline, and Betty could think of no better way to blow off the rest of that steam than to let Jughead fuck her in the backseat of his friend Sweet Pea’s beater.

Whatever it was, she struggled to put a finger on it. Was it his nerve, his temerity? Was it that his dedication to the investigation, his vehement and gutsy search for truth was just as tenacious as her own? Was it his absolute stubbornness on the conventions of journalistic writing or the fact he had really long and strangely elegant fingers? All she knew was that the combination of these things made her want to climb him like a tree every hour of every day.

The next morning, as soon as her mother’s station wagon rounded the corner of Elm and Walnut, Betty was bounding down the stairs. Once she yanked open the backdoor, he was barreling in, wrapping an arm around her waist, and manhandling her back into the kitchen counter. She barely had time to shove the door closed behind him, and the unexpected aggression knocked the air out of her.

His mouth was suddenly feverish and wanton on hers, the blade of his forearm hard at her lower back as she stumbled backwards. He knocked her off her feet both mentally and physically, kissing her like he craved her, like he was starving for her. He didn’t even let her say _hi_ before he was taking it, taking her, and for the first time, Betty wondered if he wanted her as much as she always seemed to want him.

It simmered down after that initial, passionate greeting. He pulled away, his thumb under her jawline, smiling that same crooked, boyish smile and finally murmuring shyly, _hi_. Betty snatched his hand and yanked him upstairs, tugging them both onto her bed in a flurry of grasping limbs and more heated kisses, but then it defaulted into just another make-out session, like any other day.

While he trailed butterfly kisses down her jawline, Betty ventured timidly, ‘You could be rougher.’

He stopped gently nipping her neck and pushed up on his arms, gazing down at her with a mixture of scrutiny and maybe eagerness. ‘Define rough,’ he invited, opening up the conversation casually, but she could sense the interest in his voice.

Her legs were splayed around his hips, and she could feel he was hard through his jeans. It was scrambling her thoughts because all she wanted to do was grab him by the waistband of his jeans, unbutton them, and yank the zipper down, fuck like bunnies and race for the finish line. The rational fraction of her brain was fighting a losing battle with the hormonal overload from her hindbrain, reasoning that would be a waste of a rare parentless afternoon, a waste of a good bed, which had been a luxury when they first started having sex. Betty still lives with her parents, and Jughead has three roommates with spread out schedules. At least one is usually at the apartment, which makes it difficult to find any alone time. Betty cannot always be quiet.

When Betty failed to provide her definition of ‘roughness’, because she really didn’t have a good idea of what she meant by it, ‘roughness’, Jughead was attentive enough to ask again, ‘What do you want me to do to you, Betts?’

Her hand inched toward his own, fingertips brushing up against his own as she intimated, ‘In the kitchen, I liked that.’

His features relaxed into fondness, his fingers playing over her own. ‘Yeah?’ She nodded, and then he snatched her wrist. ‘What if I held you down? Would you like that, too?’ He inquired curiously, his grip firm but not oppressive.

There was an undercurrent of anticipation. Betty thinks it started in the kitchen, but it probably started in Greendale. If she looks further, it started long before that, definitely in her, and with Jughead’s demeanor that afternoon in her bedroom, probably in him as well. His thumb worked purposeful strokes against the underside of her wrist, like he was only waiting patiently for her to give him the green light. She whispered her consent, felt her stomach flip when she saw that ephemeral little smile flicker at the edges of his lips, and then he pushed his foot on the gas pedal.

That is how she feels now, the same hum of expectancy. He keeps brushing his knuckles against her hipbone, his breath on the back of her neck. Maybe it has been eating at him, too, because Betty cannot get that afternoon out of her head. She can barely sit through a lecture without her thoughts drifting back to it, her imagination adding embellishments of her own, her lower brain hoping for a repeat and soon. Now.

“Did you want something, Betts?” He wonders, shifting to stand behind her. He plays coy, reaching around her to lift the print from the tray and drop it into an empty slot in the rinse screen. The front of his jeans bumps her bottom, and she forces herself not to press back into him. It is like he is waiting for her to concede defeat and finally demand what she came here for, placing the onus on her. The tip of his nose drifts along the soft skin behind her ear like he can smell it on her, the need, the smut hesitating on the tip of her tongue.

“I just wanted to see you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles again because it is too dark for that. “Guess you’re just going to have to feel me instead.”

She can only feel him, but she realizes now that is what she wants. He hasn’t even put his hands on her yet, not fully, and yet every nerve ending feels attuned to the slightest brush of his fingers between her hipbones, the light pressure of his belt buckle bumping into her sacrum. The faintest touch feels amplified tenfold.

“Did you come here for a lesson?” He searches, his thumb drumming the edge of the sink.

“I want to play,” she whispers again, like the words are too fragile to be spoken aloud.

“What do you have in mind?” He pushes, edging in closer behind her, and then she knows his thoughts are flowing in the same direction as her own, feeling him hard through the front of his jeans. She braves pressing back just a little, only a small bit of pressure, and he hums low in his throat.

“I don’t know,” she admits, drawing a blank on any specifics, only knowing that she wants to feel something similar to last Sunday morning, breathless yet controlled. “Touch me like you want me.”

  
He laughs softly, his forehead bumping the back of her head, his nose in her ponytail. “I always want you, Betty,” he admits, like he doesn’t understand how she could think otherwise. “You have no idea,” he adds, his tone lower, closer to her ear.

Betty risks nudging him further, pressing her ass back into him fully now, and he hisses to her delight. “Don’t hold back,” she urges, laying one of her hands over his holding the sink edge in a death grip. “I trust you.”

He laughs tightly, and the sound feels so close. “We could get hurt in the dark.”

Fat chance, she thinks. He could probably run around this entire room like a bull in a china shop and not knock a single thing. Luckily, she doesn’t get the chance for any witty repartee when she feels his mouth on her ear, hot and rasping, reminding her, “You asked for it.”

It sounds like a dare, and then his arms are wrapped around her body, a grip on her hip, the other on her shoulder as he swings her about-face and practically drags her over to one of the enlarger booths. There is no enlarger in this one, though, and she wonders how the hell he could see that in the dark. She exhales roughly when her hips connect with the counter edge, and he presses himself flush to her backside, pinning her there.

“Juggie,” she breathes, bracing her palms on the counter. “What if someone comes,” she suddenly rationalizes. It is late, but there were probably stragglers wandering around the art building.

“It’s seven o’clock,” he reasons easily, rocking his hips into hers, one palm smoothing over her collarbone. His hand ventures further to cup her breast, thumbing her nipple through her sweater.

“The janitor,” she manages to get out, ducking her head. A wonderful mistake, she thinks, his teeth bumping over the top of her spine. 

His voice is muffled through a mouthful of her when he states, “He doesn’t make his rounds until nine.”

She laughs. “You know the janitor’s schedule?” He is a notorious night owl. She was lucky to get him out of bed before ten in the morning last Sunday.

“It doesn’t change,” he offers without really explaining how he knows, sounding tired with the argument, more preoccupied with leaving his dental records in the nape of her neck. It hurts, but it also sends sparks down her spine.

She continues to make half-hearted arguments, thoroughly distracted by his mouth leaving marks on the nape of her neck. “What if someone comes to pick up their photos?” Betty doesn’t think she could come out in the light of day ever again if someone in Jughead’s photography class caught them going at it in the dark room late on a Wednesday night. She meets him for lunch after almost every class that enough of his classmates would probably recognize her. It is dark in here, but who the hell else would it be?

“No one’s gonna come in here, Betts,” he assures her, pressing his cheek to the back of her shoulder, his thumb stroking her hipbone thoughtfully. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” she gets out in a rush, and then slower, “Yes, I’m just – nervous.”

“You want me to gag you?” He offers it like it is no big thing, like he is doing her a favor.

Betty’s cheeks hurt. She is sure they are beet red, but she manages a cheeky rejoinder anyway, “You’d be missing out.” He may never have said it out loud, but she knows Jughead likes it when she gets vocal.

“The possibility of someone walking in on us will be the least of your worries soon, Betts,” he promises, dropping both hands to her hips and holding her firmly to the counter.

He exhales carefully, like he is mentally preparing himself. When she feels the hard ridge of his cock against her ass, she desperately wants to press back. She loves the pressure, needing it further southward, but he keeps her pinned. Several moments pass and he does nothing. She is almost afraid to ask, but the anticipation is pushing her to the edge, right where he wants her. “What are you thinking about?”

He kisses the back of her neck with far more tenderness than before, but Betty suspects it is a feint. “There are only four words I want to hear out of your mouth in the next hour,” he whispers in her ear, and then slips the lobe between his teeth. He bites down just enough to draw pain before releasing it and outlining exactly what she is allowed to say. “Yes, sir, please, and more. Nothing other than those four words unless I say so, understand?” He asks, reaching up to tug on her earlobe, mulling it between thumb and forefinger to soothe the residual ache from his teeth. The sudden dominant in his voice is unexpected, and Better wonders where he has been hiding him, how long he has been restraining this buried aspect of himself.

They met at freshmen orientation and started dating a few weeks after that, and ever since then, Jughead has been nothing but sweet and gentle and more than generous in all the physical arenas of their relationship. With her timid request to be a little rougher, Betty thinks she may have popped the lid on something in him. On her as well, she considers, feeling something ignite in the pit of her belly with his low, steady voice in her ear, the sudden pinch of his teeth on her earlobe. She feels her insides clench at nothing and wishes there was something – him.

When she nods, he strokes her chin before replacing his hand on her hips, pressing her back into the counter. “Now, stop talking.”

Then, he hums in thought, considering her question. His thumbs massaging the soft flesh behind her hipbones, he confesses quietly, “I’m thinking about all the things I want to do to you. You have no idea how many things I’ve wanted to try, but.” He stops himself, leaning into her.

She sighs in response, her head falling back on his shoulder, arching into him. “Like what?”

He grabs her ponytail roughly, wrapping it up in his hand. “What’d I say?”

Betty’s stomach does a full somersault, a tiny plaintive moan getting stuck in her throat with his sudden aggression. He jerks on her ponytail, not enough to hurt but enough to elicit an alarmed little grunt from her. She feels a pleased smile bleed onto her face, wishes he could see it, but that is the rub here. Betty decides to convey her enjoyment by grinding her ass back against his jeans, and he groans, bucks into her on instinct so hard her hipbones dig into the counter edge. She wonders if there will be bruises there tomorrow.

When he feels he has her obedient and quiet and consenting, he continues with his thought, sketching all his wretched plans for her, as vaguely as possible just to keep her on the edge. “For starters, I can’t get this idea out of my head,” he begins, and she worries for a moment when he pulls away, but he keeps a firm grip on her hips, his thumbs pressing into her lower back. She arches in response, presenting herself.

“You’ve got a great ass,” he muses. “I’m just.” He stops, considering it.

“Please,” she bids, bending herself further over the counter.

One hand leaves her hips, and then his palm smooths up her thigh, nails trailing along bare skin and raising gooseflesh in their path. Her skirt rides up over the course of his campaign, making her breath hitch, hoping maybe he will give her a little relief for the ache throbbing something awful between her legs now. Yet, instead his fingers slip beneath the elastic of her panties, encompassing one peachy cheek in the whole of his hand and squeezing, splitting her ass apart. Without warning, his thumb slides down to prod her pucker, and it tickles, making her keen, wiggling against him. _Not low enough_ , her lizard brain mourns, wishing he would just – a little something, anything.

Betty chews her lip but manages to confess, “I’m not quite ready for that, Juggie.” Not that she wouldn’t be open to it in the future, maybe, possibly, if they talked about it, did more research, more preparation.

He hums in agreement. “Not exactly where my mind was going,” he concurs. “I was thinking more along the lines of.” He pauses, and she feels a small playful tap against her ass.

  
The thought sends a little zing down the thread of her spine, curling and twisting with delight in her clit. “Yes, please,” she groans, curving her back and presenting herself fully to him.

“You sure?”

Jughead double-checks because they have never done anything like this before. All they did on Sunday was play around with some light restraining, holding her down, nothing too outrageous. Spanking was a whole separate room in their newly discovered house of debauchery. Betty isn’t even sure they have both agreed to put a down payment on it yet, but that doesn’t stop the eager _God, yes, please_ that spills out of her mouth on impulse. She didn’t know she wanted it until he implied it with nothing but a simple, painless tap on her bare ass, but as soon as he did it, she craved it.

She thinks she hears him mutter something that sounds like _good girl_ , and it makes her shiver, a preening tremble running down the length of her spine. She wants to hear it, the resounding snap of his palm against her bare ass, wants to know what sorts of sounds he can draw out of her, wonders if he would make some himself, his grunts from the effort.

“Okay,” he concedes, sounding neutral, but she senses the slight waver in his hand as it passes back over the curve of her ass to her lower back. “We’re going to set some ground rules.”

She nods, moving to stand back up, but his hand lands on her shoulder, signaling she is right where he wants her.

“Stay like that,” he orders. His voice changes, not necessarily in pitch, but in tone, more authoritative, aggressive yet steady. She finds herself relying on it, even as her nerves sizzle and trepidation winds in her gut, she feels better to hear the stability and certainty in his voice.

“Keep your hands flat on the countertop. If you move them, you get more licks, understand?”

She nods, and he pinches her ass, coercing the correction, _yes, sir_. “Good girl,” he praises, soothing the pinched skin and continuing, “We’ll start with ten, and you are going to count out loud, okay? Can you give me ten?”

“Yes,” she consents. Ten doesn’t sound like an overwhelming number, but then her thoughts are cut in half when she feels him pinch her again, harder this time.

“Yes, sir,” he corrects in warning.

_Holy shit_. She feels like her lungs are about to mutiny. Betty likes this Jughead. Her body seems to like him, too, feeling the draft on the wet spot between her legs. She quickly responds with the honorific dictated, bowing her head lower in obedience.

“Good girl,” he commends again. She stares unseeing at the dark booth in front of her, the blinders on either side. She feels fuzzy and lightheaded and realizes she wants to hear that over and over again. _Good girl_. She wants to feel it over and over again, the stroke of gratification in the center of her gut every time he says it.

His index fingers hook underneath her panties, and he draws over her ass and down her thighs, letting his knuckles skim as he descends. She senses his breath on the backs of her thighs, his mouth bare inches from where she throbs and aches for relief. His fingers stroke her ankle bone, and she dutifully helps him untangle her panties from around her shoes, holds her breath when he places a tender kiss to one buttock. After he divests her of her underwear, he doesn’t say what he does with them, only stands wordlessly and flips her skirt back up, his palm smoothing over her sacrum again.

He slides one foot between her legs, and she feels the teasing brush of his thigh, wills herself not to clench and scratch her itch just a little. Then, she feels the abrupt strike of his foot against her own. “Spread out,” he directs, nudging her feet wider, and then she really feels the air down there, knows she is sopping wet and wanting.

His hand curls around the back of her neck briefly, giving her a fond squeeze before it drifts down to brace her lower back. “Ready?”

Her thighs are trembling in anticipation, and she wants to draw her knees together. She cannot believe she is ready to sink to the ground and puddle and he hasn’t even done anything yet. “Yes, sir,” she manages, feeling like her tongue is too big for her mouth.

“Count them out, Betts.”

She nods, taking a deep breath. He flattens his palm to her cheek, and she can see it in her mind’s eye, the remnant marks when he grabbed her so roughly, his fingers lovingly stroking them now. They will fade too easily, though, and Betty wants something that will linger, something to revisit later, the dull achy reminder every time she must endure another droning lecture in her freshmen math class.

She doesn’t hear the drawback, but the absence of her hand makes her insides clench. All the air leaves her when his hand comes reeling back, the crack of his palm against her ass louder than she expected. There is a dull hurt from where his palm connected, and an itch from the residual snap of his fingers against her skin. The whiplash hurt is followed by a bloom of heat that seeps all the way to her core.

“One,” she submits, her shoulders hunched up at her ears, her chin dropped to her chest. He did not hold back, and it is only the first one.

He pauses, and she feels him surrounding her, denim rubbing sensitive skin and making her flinch. “What was that?”

Louder this time, “One.”

“Good girl,” she commends, his voice right next to her ear, and she shivers at the feel of it sliding down her neckline, a flush of pleasure diffusing down her spine. His hand moves to the juncture of her shoulder and neck, massaging the tension he finds there. “I have to know you’re with me,” he reminds her.

She nods, taking measured breaths. “Yes, sir.” Betty is definitely here. Her ass is already smarting.

Betty feels the heat from his mouth against the back of her head, a reverent press of lips as his hand sneaks back down to palm her sacrum. He barely gives her time to prepare before his other hand comes back around, striking the same center of inflamed flesh.

It is a complete bullseye, and she moans, pressing her forehead into the back of her hand. He is not holding back, not a whit, and she finds herself glad for it. She does not have to make any adjustments or demands of her own. She feels overwhelmed but only in the way she hoped, only enough that allows her to unbend, submit, let him work his will over her, let someone else be in control for once. Maybe he really is figuring out what she wants. 

“Two,” she grinds out, feeling lost inside the pleasure bordering on pain. She wants to snap her legs together, anything to scratch at least a fragment of the itch between her thighs, but she needs to get to ten. She wants him to know she can make it to ten.

When he spanks her on the other cheek and his fingertips just barely graze her pussy, she cannot help her knees knocking together as she cries out. Slumped on the countertop, she tries to control her breathing, rubbing her thighs together.

“Spread your legs,” he orders, his voice killer calm but patient.

Her breaths are shaky, her mouth open against the back of her hand. She turns her face to the side, her cheek against the humid stickiness she left on her knuckles. Seven more. He might leave bruises. She feels surprised at the thrill that runs through her, expanding her fantasy, imagining his fingermarks bluing and persistent on the peachy flesh of her ass like a badge of honor, a testament to her will power. And her commitment. She wants this, but she also wants Jughead to know she wants this.

Hesitantly, her knees separate, wobbling as she straightens her legs and presents herself to him once more. 

He _hmms_ thoughtfully and asks her to remind him what number they are on. “Four, sir,” she supplies.

“Are you sure? Were we that far along?”

He sounds so genuinely uncertain and curious that she nearly calls him a dirty name, but instead submits a wavering, “Yes, sir.” Her knees feel jointless, like she is standing on gelatin.

“I didn’t hear three, though,” he points out, rightly – unfortunately.

Scolding herself, she sinks down onto the countertop, sighing with relief. He grabs her hips roughly and prompts her to stand back up. “No slacking, Betts.”

He spreads his fingers over her backside, smoothing his palms over the soft flesh behind her hipbones, right above where he probably left marks on her skin. It feels good, easing the itch she feels around them. “Are you okay?” He asks, his tone gentler now.

“Yes, sir,” she supplies promptly, mewling when his hands slide over her inflamed flesh.

He hums in approval, grabbing one cheek, splitting her apart again. “Your skin is on fire,” he muses. “I want to feel what that did to you.” Then, he slips his hand between her legs, two fingers slithering up to pry her slit apart. His middle finger sliding through the mess of her, he groans the Lord’s name in vain. “You like this?”

She nods, and then remembers the darkness, her direct orders. “Yes, sir.”

He suddenly tucks his index and middle finger up inside her, easy enough to do with how wet he made her. It forces another plaintive moan from her lips, a small shimmy of her hips back into his hand. “No kidding,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Christ, Betts, I might not make it to ten.” He bumps into the side of her thigh, and she feels him straining through the front of his jeans.

He sounds so pleased with her, so admiring, even overwhelmed, that Betty feels herself practically buzzing with pride. “Please, sir, I want ten,” she begs. At this point, it would feel like defeat not to get to ten. Besides, this isn’t just a test of her own will power. He needs to participate, too. It goes both ways.

He chuckles, but it sounds strained, like he is struggling with something. His hand lands next to hers on the countertop, thumb stroking her little finger. His hips rock into her thigh as he thrusts his fingers in and out of her cunt. His rhythm feels almost contemplative, like he is deliberating with himself and not so much stroking her toward oblivion. Betty closes her thighs again, maybe to prompt him into making a decision, but partially to alleviate the ache pulsing between her legs.

He tsks at her, pulling his fingers from her pussy. She feels his thigh intruding between her knees, and his foot knocks into hers none to gently, kicking her legs apart. It startles her, the sudden aggression forcing her to catch herself before she face plants on the counter.

She practically squeaks in alarm when he plants one hand on her shoulder, his grip firm to hold her in place, and he keeps one boot next to her foot, just in case she gets another inclination to close her legs. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” he whispers, his thumb working at a particularly stubborn knot above her scapula.

Intermission over, his palm snaps against unmarked flesh, spreading out the hurt. Betty presses her cheek into her opposite shoulder, mouth open and gasping against the soft cashmere of her sweater. She hears him ask politely for the number, and her voice sounds stunned to her own ears. “Four, sir.”

“I never heard three,” he reminds her, punctuating this with a tight squeeze of her shoulder.

“Three, sir,” she amends reluctantly.

She barely gets the sir out before he strikes her again. He holds his hand against her thigh at the end, just to feel the heat rise there. “Four, sir.”

His thumb digs in above her shoulder blade, his fingers snug to her collarbone “Good girl,” he commends, kneading her chafed flesh. “How badly do you want all ten?” He asks, like he is gaming her into giving up. He sounds like he is in pain, his voice tight, burdened.

The next smack sounds like it echoes throughout the darkroom, ringing in her ears, and she gasps against her arm, her teeth worrying at the damp fabric of her sweater. “Badly, sir,” she grinds out. “Five, sir.”

He strikes her in the same spot again and again, Betty biting out six, but it takes her two tries to get the whole two syllables of seven out of her mouth, breaking on the _n_. The skin of her backside feels like it is on fire, yet Jughead’s hand on her shoulder has not wavered for one second, his grip centering.

He curls three fingers up her slit, slip-sliding through her folds, the tips teasing her clit. She can hear the mess now, the squelch of her cunt as he slips two fingers back inside her. He repeats his earlier question, his voice hoarse. “How badly do you want all ten?”

Betty can barely concentrate on answering with his fingers working her into a lather. Each shift of her hips back into his fingers brings her thighs to bear with the front of his jeans, and it chafes something deliciously awful that she keeps doing it. He grunts, thrusting himself against her thigh, waiting for her to respond. “Badly, sir,” she returns, pushing a private smile into her arm and hoping he cannot hear it in her voice.

She hears him, though, his quiet little gripe, _goddamnit_. It’s a small triumph.

Eight, nine, and the final tenth follow quickly, the last one the harshest of them all. Betty is certain there will be bruises tomorrow. The tenth one feels like victory as she slumps onto the countertop. Jughead’s grip loosens on her shoulder, sliding down her backside.

Betty can hear him moving behind her, the scuffle of his boots across the linoleum. She registers the clink of his belt buckle, but she takes a few moments to catch her breath and bask in her accomplishment. He barely gives her any reprieve, her ears catching the drag of his zipper.

He asks her, though, if she is still okay. She reaches one hand back to find him. Her fingers trip over his shirt before she gets a hold of it, yanking him forward. She is keyed up beyond all reason, her insides about to riot for relief, and she groans when she feels one less barrier between them, feeling the hard line of his cock through his jockeys against her bare ass. The soft cotton of his underwear is coarse, maddening against her punished flesh.

“Please,” she begs, spreading her legs wider in invitation.

She hears him shrug out of his shirt, tossing it into the other booth. Then, his hands are grazing beneath her sweater, beckoning her to raise up so he can strip it off her. It joins his shirt in the other booth, and soon enough he unhooks her bra, gently sliding it from her arms and pitching it into the adjacent booth. Then, his palms are folding over her breasts, pulling her back into him. Betty thinks it must be the darkness, one sense dimmed so the others may thrive, because the skin-to-skin contact feels a thousand times better than usual.

He palms her breasts, and her head falls back on his shoulder. She sighs into his hands, it all feels too good, too comfortable, even as a tempest rages between her legs, amplified by the scorched ache across the backs of her thighs, her ass.

“Please,” she says again, keening when he starts to roll her nipples between his fingers. He rocks his hips into her, his cock sliding up and down the divide of her ass. It cannot be too satisfying for him, the extra cotton barrier between them, but he seems content to do this for a while, winding her up all over again.

“Please, sir,” she implores, and then her hand sneaks across the countertop, edging towards her center. Just as her an inch of air forms between her palm and the counter, he snatches her wrist and folds her arm behind her, pinning her hand to her lower back.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” His whisper is lethal, his weight pinning her to the counter. She feels surrounded by him, his breath hot in her ear, whimpering when he angles her arm higher behind her back to the point of near-pain. “You were being such a good girl,” he laments, and Betty’s heart drops into her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she submits, and it surprises her how sincere it sounds even though this is still a play.

“You don’t trust me to get you there.” He sounds offended, pinching her nipple harshly between thumb and forefinger. “I thought ten licks would teach you some patience.” Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, she gripes privately to herself. He barely lasted the full ten either. Besides, it was technically eleven, and her ass would not soon forget it.

“Maybe I’ll just get myself off here and let you suffer,” he muses, releasing her breast but not her arm. Then, she feels his fingers slipping through her folds, a moment’s reprieve, before he takes them away. She whines, pressing her hips back into him, hopeful when he lays his bare cock in the crevasse of her ass. He takes a small step back, holding her arm tight to her lower back. She hears the squelch of his hand working over his cock, taking his gratification for himself and leaving her wanting.

Betty sobs, pleading with him, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” He wonders, sounding a little breathless as he strokes himself.

“Anything, anything,” she repeats, flexing her hand against her spine, her elbow starting to ache.

He stops pleasuring himself, and she feels his presence surrounding her again, his chest warm against her shoulders, his breath behind her ear. “Lay down,” he commands, his hand landing on her other wrist. She does, letting her upper body sink onto the counter. “Give me your other arm.” Betty obeys without hesitation, letting him curl his fingers around her other wrist and bend her arm to join the other. He gets both her wrists in one hand and pins them to her back, effectively immobilizing her.

“Good girl,” he says with a pleased sigh, his free hand stroking her from the small of her waist to her hipbone. It does something to her, her insides feeling fluffy and warm to be in his good graces once more.

“Now, your reward,” he announces, an ounce of jest in his voice, but she can hear the quiver.

Betty inhales shakily, heady with anticipation as he nudges her entrance with the head of his cock, smearing more of her slick over himself. She moans long and low as he sinks forward, exhaling roughly as he fits himself inside of her. The weight of him is hot and full and heavy in her lower belly. They have never had sex in this position before, and it feels different. She feels more stretched out, and it feels like he reaches new depths.

Jughead seems to be on the same page, remarking in awe, “That’s new.” He pauses, letting her adjust to the new position.

“You good?” He checks in again, and she wants to snap at him to just fuck her already. They are way past pleasantries at this point. Instead, she offers up a wanton _yes, sir_ , bald-faced neediness bleeding out of her throat.

She thinks she hears him say _thank, god_ , but he sends her beyond caring with the first pitch of his hips, a slow, drawn-out thrust that scrambles her thoughts. “Jesus, how can you feel tighter like this?” He ponders, bewildered, rocking into her again.

Betty doesn’t know, but he is not allowed to stop. Every time his thighs meet the backs of hers, she feels a flush of dull pain from the marks left behind by his hand, a mind-numbing fullness in her belly, a twinge in her shoulders as her body cannot figure out what to do with itself, wishing she could move back against him. He has taken all her control away.

“I wish I could see what you look like right now,” he broods, establishing a steady rhythm of long, slow strokes that bring her to a simmer. She wonders why he can’t see her. It’s his universe. He is the predator here, and she has been blind since she got here. She gave up any semblance of control as soon as she crossed the threshold of the moons and stars in the revolving door.

_Guess you’ll just have to feel me_ , she almost teases, a call back to earlier, but it feels too good. Her brain cannot process quickly enough to let her mouth produce words. Nothing escapes her throat but needy laments and shameless moans, a gasping _more_ here, a strained _yes_ there.

He grabs hold of one cheek and peels her ass apart. She can imagine him gazing down, barely able to make out the sight of his cock sinking inside of her, her pussy widening around his girth, accommodating him. That is how she feels, accommodating, acquiescent, letting him work his will over her, delighted by his will, her mind melted by it. It is comforting, not having to think so much for once, to let her consciousness sink into the darkness around her and let him fill her up to the brim with pleasure.

“You’re being very good,” he commends, his thumb teasing the lip of her pussy stretched around his cock. He sounds taxed, a little distracted, but he continues to move in and out of her. His rhythm picks up, thrusts growing shorter, rougher.

His free hand travels at a teasing pace from her ass to her hip, traversing around the dip in her waist and slithering down between her hipbones until his three middle fingers find her clit. Betty could cry, and a pinching heat develops behind her eyes. She sobs when he finally touches her where she needs it most, moving his fingers in tight, little circles. Her mind moves with them, her thoughts tumbling like clothes in a washing machine, unable to cohere into anything rational or civilized as she dissolves into a puddle of defenseless want.

“Holy shit,” he marvels, his hips pausing against her backside as he bottoms out, panting over her bound hands. “You feel so fucking good.”

His fingers keep moving, though his thrusts get shorter, like he is barely able to move. He settles for increasing the pace, quick, abrupt jerks of his hips into hers, some almost brutal. It is exactly what she needs, and she asks him, pleads with him to let her come.

“I’m right there,” he tells her, his hips slapping her ass, and it feels like it is lighting up every handprint he left on her skin. “You gonna come with me, Betts?”

She nods, unable to voice her impending orgasm. He can probably feel it anyway, her insides tensing up, his fingers working sloppy, urgent circles over her clit while his cock fills her full to bursting. She can hear it building in his own voice, frenetic groans underlining his determined thrusts, nearly violent in their pursuit. He curses, like he is holding out, waiting for her, but her time is already up.

Her climax gets stuck in her throat at first, her entire body jolting back against him. Then the dam breaks, pleasure flooding out from her clit and deep inside her, spiraling up into her belly. The keen that gets out is harsh, almost painful sounding, but Jughead works her through it, moaning lowly to himself as his fingers continue to work her over, his hips pausing against her backside so she can feel the fullness of him, clenching and fluttering around his cock. She cannot see anything, but she feels everything, the darkness heightening her senses. Her eyes are open but blind to anything but the unbelievable pleasure coursing through her.

Jughead swears again, and as she finishes, he lets himself go with a strangled shout, thrusting a few more times before he comes, bleeding out inside of her. He doesn’t realize he has released her wrists, both his hands landing on either side of her, gripping the countertop and shuddering against her backside, letting his own climax roar through him.

Betty carefully maneuvers her arms back into a normal position, one hand pushing her up until her back is flush with his torso, everything warm and sweaty. He curls himself around her, his lips searching along the nape of her neck, teeth nipping behind her ear. “God, I love you,” he rasps, sounding dazed. He presses his hand into her belly and draws her as close as possible, nuzzling her. “You’re extraordinary, you know that?”

She hums happily from the praise, folding her hand over his own, practically purring as his mouth works a mark into the juncture between her shoulder and neck, teething at the hickey he forms there. “I think you deserve a medal of honor for your wet work, Juggie,” she returns cheekily.

He laughs, and it rumbles through her, making her sink into him. “Is that what this was?”

She shrugs, and he plants another kiss over the mark he left on her shoulder, the tenderness in it in such stark contrast to their previous activities. “How do you feel?”

The after-buzz from her orgasm fading, Betty takes stock, realizing she feels dead-tired but clear-headed, her shoulders and elbows sore and her ass and thighs achy. She tells him as much, and he peels himself off her back for an assessment. His softening cock slips out from between her legs, and when she feels his come dripping down her thighs, she sighs, feeling taken. She is strangely satisfied by that thought, by the idea of being marked by him in so many ways, and when he presses his fingers into her backside, she hisses, flinching as all the adrenaline starts to leave her, but it only serves to imprint the idea in her brain, all the ways in which he has claimed her. She feels taken but taken in a way that makes her feel wanted yet safe, desired but also appreciated.

He curses and yanks his hand away. “Okay, you need something, like an ice pack or a hot compress or something. We should alternate.”

Betty giggles at his attentiveness. She is achy and sore, sure, she expected this, but he seems very troubled by it. “You’re cute, Juggie.”

“After care is really important,” he defends sternly.

“After care?” She wonders, moving around him to find her clothes. It suddenly feels very cold in the darkroom.

He sounds bashful when he tells her, “That’s what they called it.” He untangles her bra from the enlarger and hands it to her.

“What who called it?” Has he been researching this? How long has he been entertaining these fantasies? Betty is oddly thrilled by the idea, wondering exactly what Jughead has looked into, what other ideas he might have in the future. She takes a beat on that thought, that she might want to continue this, whatever this was, continue and build upon it. They have had great sex before, sure, but nothing like this.

Jughead finds her sweater and helps her into it, cognizant of the soreness in her arms. “I don’t know – the experts in these sorts of things. You know, dominant-submissive relationships.”

“Is that the door we’ve opened?” She inquires, her curiosity spiking. Her mind automatically associates his words with things her much more sexually adventurous and vocal friend Veronica has divulged to her during heated girls’ nights, things like bondage and sado-masochism. Some things tickled Betty’s imagination, but others outright frightened her. Is that the house they are walking into now?

“I mean,” he starts, trailing off, sensing he has sent her mind down a veritable rabbit hole. “Did you like this?”

“Yes.” Then, she adds, “Is that the official label for it then?” Dominant-submissive – it sounds too cut and dry, like they each have to fit inside a specific category. She liked having him be in control this go-around, but Betty isn’t sure she wants that to be the norm. She has her own dominant urges and wouldn’t mind having a turn herself.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he explains, zipping up his jeans and then searching for his shirt. “I mean, it should be a discussion. We should talk about it. What we want, what we don’t want. I just – I wasn’t sure what you wanted, or if you’d like this, or if you even want to keep doing this,” he rambles, and she finds it kind of adorable. She didn’t know he could get nervous here in the darkroom, his sanctuary, but he is now. She did that.

Betty cups his cheek, smiling fondly in the darkness even though he cannot see it. “I love you.”

He ducks his head and kisses her, for the first time tonight, she realizes. Her fingers caress his cheek, lining up where she knows he has a constellation of beauty marks, one of her many favorite features. It isn’t a deep kiss, but it is no less passionate, no less devoid of sincerity despite its chasteness, and Betty finds it is exactly what she needs, the perfect response. He takes her bottom lip between his own and then whispers his own love again, a soft admission that manages to fill her heart to the brim, blooming out from her chest and up into her throat and her arms and her stomach and her legs down the tips of her fingers and toes. They have only been dating for less than a year but already she feels lousy with it, absolutely smitten, practically mad.

“We’ll talk about it,” she returns, her voice quiet but content, and Betty feels his grin even in the dark.

When they exit the darkroom, the revolving door spitting them back out in the light, Betty feels good enough to finish proofreading the remainder of columns for the next issue of the _Blue and Gold_ and tells him as much. He looks skeptical, arguing she needs to sleep, probably more so after their shameless escapade in the darkroom. She crosses her arms, daring him to stop her. He looks at her stance like he is fully prepared to fight her on this, grabbing his bag and putting his beanie back on because he never seems to wear it when he works in the darkroom.

“Fine,” he gives in, exhaling sharply in frustration, but then he points an accusing finger at her. “But, you’re gonna eat and hydrate.” She nods like that is obvious enough, her stomach grumbling on cue. Then, Jughead seems to remember something and adds with even more intensity, his voice louder than necessary, “And, you’re gonna let me find a hot water bottle for your ass.”

Betty cannot keep the smile off her face that ripens into a full-blown laugh. “Okay, deal, Juggie.” She grabs his arm, hugging it to her body as she tugs them both towards the door and out into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated, if you're feeling frisky ;)


End file.
